


Catfish Blues

by bluebeholder, Pyxyl



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Epistolary, Fish, Gen, Lovecraftian, Major Original Character(s), Mild Thalassophobia, Multiple Religion & Lore Sources, The Overseers Are The Good Guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15054911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyxyl/pseuds/Pyxyl
Summary: They lurk in the unfathomable waters of silty streams and cold lakes. People wear their bones as tokens of luck. They are everywhere, waiting, watching, corrupting. The Abbey of the Everyman is the last bastion of defense against the sinister influence from the rivers and streams, against the things that lurk in dark waters. Down the years, the Overseers wage their silent war on the terror in the deep.And up from the murk the Outsider looks, with the eyes of a catfish.





	Catfish Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Today we're taking a different look at the Outsider, a walk through his more...horrific aspects. And as a bonus, this is a look at some lore concepts I've dreamed up for the inland parts of the Isles. They're BIG, so...it stands to reason that not everybody goes in for the whales, especially in the interior. If that's so...what does worship of the Outsider look like there?
> 
> I owe an infinite debt of gratitude to Askance and standbyme, authors of [All Things Shining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755094/chapters/1411043), one of if not THE best Supernatural fics out there. When I reference the story of the fish and the star--this is where it comes from. 
> 
> My co-author on this fic is also my regular beta reader! Pyxyl got WILDLY invested when I started asking her about catfish, and next thing I know she's spent over an hour digging around doing research to put me on a good path with the myths and folktales here. Hence her co-authorship, despite...well, not being a Dishonored fan at all. She's just here for the catfish.
> 
> At the end of the fic is an EXHAUSTIVE annotation about the original myths and folktales from which I drew to create the epistolary half of the fic. I've tried to be respectful to the original stories and to the cultures that created them, and to be as faithful as I can when blending them with Dishonored magic and witchcraft. 
> 
> All that said...enjoy!

It is bad luck to be touched by a catfish.

_The swimming of catfish will predict earthquakes._

Rich men who see a catfish will soon lose money.

_Giant, man-eating catfish swim in the deepest reaches of lakes and still river waters._

The poison of a catfish’s whiskers can kill a man.

_A school of catfish can devour an ox._

No one knows where catfish come from; they do not spawn and they have no eggs.

_Catfish are witches’ familiars, their eyes and ears in the water._

Harming a catfish will cause a flood.

_Killing a catfish will cause a drought._

The center of the Empire’s agriculture is rife with superstition and legend, and these presented here are commonplace throughout the hill country in the interior of Gristol. Most of them are purely ridiculous. Catfish whiskers are not poisonous; no freshwater fish (even the toothy gar) have been recorded deliberately devouring humans; catfish have no teeth and feed on the bottom of rivers besides; the largest fish of Gristol’s rivers are the sturgeon (caught at twenty-four feet long at the mouth of the Wrenhaven River); catfish spawn in waters upstream of where they are ordinarily found; they have no supernatural powers of earthquakes or drought. Any natural philosopher understands these things and the observations that produced the conclusions.

Unfortunately, these superstitions persist because not all of them are so easily shown false. There is no empirical evidence for lost wealth or bad luck or witches. These ghoulish things have a folk memory which persists long after the natural philosopher has dissected the fish and sounded the depths. To compound the issue, whispers persist that catfish are the servants of the Outsider. Folk tradition tells us that the most massive catfish, larger than even the sturgeon, are indeed a shape of the Outsider himself.

—excerpt from _The Measured World: A New Almanac_ , a work of natural philosophy heavily censored by the Abbey for violation of the Strictures of the Wandering Gaze, the Lying Tongue, and the Errant Mind

 

Heraldic Register of Morley (Annotated), Royal Archive in Wynnedown

Entry #58: Arms of Aystogh

_Sable, a cat-fish haurient ermine and tail amaranth._

*Historian’s Note: The literal depiction of the cat-fish in this blazon is unlikely to be a reference to an actual catfish. Periodically, witches in Morley have been found in possession of gruesome totems, the front half of a cat stitched to the tail of a fish.

**Genealogist’s Note: The Aystogh family no longer appears in official registers. Relations are not direct and no family may use this blazon.

 

Entry to the Archaeological Catalog at the Academy of Natural Philosophy (Dunwall)

_Accession No. 170-52_

_Catalog No. 132_

_Lot No. 007_

_Artifact Group:_ Undefined Use

_Artifact Type:_ Decorative Item

_Artifact Category:_ Political/Religious

_Artifact Description:_ Tablet

_Condition:_ Complete

_Material:_ Siltstone

_Mark:_ N/A

_Maker:_ Unknown

_Origin:_ Early Iron Age (approx. 4000 years ago)

_Remarks:_ The artifact is approximately 25.2 x 16.5 inches, carved from a single piece of black siltstone in the shape of a shield. Both sides are carved in raised relief with depictions of gods, monsters, and the conquests of a king. From other artifacts this king has been identified as a unifying conqueror before the Great Burning. The hieroglyphs detailing the contents of the tablet are not fully understood, but enough has been deciphered that the two symbols forming the king’s name (or perhaps his title) can be identified. The first symbol, that of a chisel, may indicate that he is an architect, a figure responsible for reconstruction or creation. The meaning of the second symbol, plainly a catfish, is less well understood.

_% Complete:_ 100%

_Note:_ Artifact was removed from storage and not returned. Location unknown.

 

There once was a man who became a catfish. He violated the Fifth Stricture and gave in to Rampant Hunger, devouring all that he could, even stealing from his neighbors and taking food from the needy. When his gluttony passed, he was filled with remorse at his transgression. Before he could put all to rights again, the man was transformed by the Outsider into a giant catfish. For the rest of his days, the man swam in the muddy river, filling the water with fishes as repentance.

—excerpt from _Instructive Tales for Children_ , a since-retracted work of educational morals published by the Abbey

 

Less is known of the ancient peoples of Serkonos than is generally known of the peoples of the other isles. Few ruins of buildings remain, and none are as well-preserved as those in Gristol. The oral tradition of Serkonos is garbled by millennia of acting as the isles’ cultural melting pot, rendering its legends less useful than those of Morley. Remains or burials are almost nonexistent, as opposed to the famous bodies preserved in Tyvia—from glaciers in the north and peat bogs in the south.

However, over many years, Serkonan historians have worked hard to uncover the misty past. On the mostly-uninhabited cliffshores and in the rural interior, there are still remnants of the past. Caves used as cliff dwellings have been found several miles east of Cullero and have yielded up stone tools, ceramic pots, and other such artifacts. Charnel pits have been discovered in the interior, bones of hunted animals giving an indication of the most ancient society.

The work of literary historian G.M. Paules is a particular example of the diligence required to make headway in Serkonos. Over the course of nearly fifty years, Paules worked unceasingly to collect Serkonan folk tales and songs. What began as a pet project of a bored young aristocrat transformed swiftly into an obsession and then an academic passion. Paules not only collected stories, but traced their genealogy from origin to point of collection.

Many have parallels or ancestors on other isles, cultural exports from traders in Serkonos, but Paules identified thirty-two folk tales with no known relatives in other isles. These thirty-two tales may give some understanding of ancient Serkonos belief and world understanding. Most intriguing are the tales which hint at an organized religion and a large-scale society, stories of temples and crumbling black cities and weapons of bronze. Alongside such evocative myths are the simpler folktales, such as the tale of the school of catfish which is said to guide the sun after it sets beneath the sea and makes its long journey through the Void overnight.

—excerpt from _History of Serkonos: An Introduction_ , a textbook for the Academy of Natural Philosophy in Dunwall

 

A curious tradition is held among fishermen on the eastern coast between Potterstead and Baleton. Only the very old will speak of it freely, but many people are found to practice it in private. Any person in a given town may be found to carry, in a pocket or worn around the neck, the rattling skull bone of a catfish. These skull bones are purported to increase the wearer’s luck, prevent pregnancy in young women, cure impotence in old men, and perform other such minor miracles.

Despite superstition, these are not crafted bone charms. Items range in size from two to six inches and may be carried in pouches, sewn to clothes, or worn strung around the neck. The skull bone is typically naturally cleaned by days in the sea, and the rattling objects inside are shown to be naturally-occurring mineral deposits. Although these show no signs of dark magic and have no proven effect, the wearing of such items is to be stringently discouraged.

Legend has it that, on the underside of the skull, there is an image of a man. Indeed, close examination of the skull will insinuate the uncanny outline of a man’s body, and some claim to see a knife in the image as well. Though this is ridiculous, the persistent idea that this image is of the Outsider is reason enough to ban the wearing of catfish skulls.

—excerpt from the recommendations in an Overseer’s report on rumors of the making of bone charms on the eastern coast of Gristol

 

Pradym Smoked Catfish, a recipe appearing in _From the North to the South: A Serkonan Epicurean’s Guide to Tyvian Cuisine_

On my travels in Tyvia, I was surprised to find a center of culture in Pradym. When one thinks of the interior of Tyvia, one generally thinks of frigid tundra, cold forests, and inhospitable landscapes. In Pradym, however, I found a welcoming city with a proud and unique cultural tradition. Despite the distance from the coast, I was shocked to find fish on the menu at many restaurants, and to find it fresh in the marketplace. Fried trout, grilled eel with sweet sauce, caviar, and more were on display. I was practically in ecstasy.

While relaxing at the magnificent local hot spring, I struck up a conversation with several chatty fisherfolk. Apparently, Pradym’s closeness to large rivers and the short travel distance to lakes creates a long tradition of freshwater fish. My new friends were gracious enough to take me to dinner that night, and couldn’t recommend the smoked catfish highly enough. After many attempts, I’ve finally managed to approximate the dish here. Any catfish of good quality will do.

Before smoking, the catfish must be brined. Mix one gallon of cold water, three-quarters cup of sea salt, one cup of brown sugar, one-half cup of savory sauce, three crushed cloves of garlic, one tablespoon of ground black pepper, and one tablespoon of ground Serkonan cayenne pepper. The salt and sugar must be completely dissolved.

Skin and fillet the catfish. The fillets should all be of similar thickness and size. Using a ceramic crock, place three pounds of catfish inside and pour one-half of the brine over it, repeating in a second ceramic crock. Let the fish brine in a refrigerator from one to four hours, occasionally stirring the fillets for even brining. When removed from the brine, rinse each fillet with clean water and pat dry. Let the fish stand on a raised rack and dry for an hour or so at room temperature, to reduce stickiness.

Smoke the catfish on a grill—not too hot to prevent the fish from becoming dry. Use a small piece of apple or cherry wood about the size of a man’s hand, and smoke the catfish fillets until they flake. Let the fish cool before eating.

Now, remember to be respectful of your fish! In Tyvia, eating an appropriately prepared catfish was said to guarantee a long and prosperous life. As a result, the fish was considered sacred, and before catching it rituals were conducted of prayers and offerings. After a successful catch, further ceremonies of thanks were conducted. It is unclear whether the rituals were performed for the catfish, for spirits of water and fish, or to something greater and darker altogether.

 

***

 

Tobias knocks on Overseer Barantyne’s door with rather more force than necessary. Almost at once, he hears a crisp “Enter,” and enter he does. Tobias crosses the room—no, he _stalks_ across the room to sit down across the desk from Barantyne.

Without a word, Tobias slaps the folder in his hand down on the desk and pushes it across. The expression on Barantyne’s face is unreadable. He takes the folder and, carefully, smooths the slightly crumpled cover. Then he looks up at Tobias, still neutral. “You read this, I presume.”

“Yes,” Tobias bites out. He leans back and crosses his arms. The old chair creaks under him and Tobias wants to scream. This furniture is older than he is. He’s out of place in this room, in this town, in this whole country.

“And you don’t see the point.”

Silence is eloquent enough.

Barantyne sighs. It’s a tired sigh, an appropriate sound from a man like him. Robert Barantyne is nearing or past sixty, iron-gray hair streaked through with chalk white, skin soft as old paper and marked with the blooms of liver spots. While he still carries himself proudly, his once-powerful physique has turned brittle. Tobias disdains his soft-edged uniforms, the way his trousers bell above his boots in accordion-like folds, the fading gray of his jacket, the brackish tarnish worked into the crevices of his too-little-worn mask. The man is losing his touch.

This folder, and every document it contains, is proof of that.

“Overseer Wyvil, you read these documents, but you made no effort to understand them,” Barantyne says. “I am attempting to train you, to teach you what you must know to protect the good people of this district.”

Tobias taps a finger on the folder. “There is nothing in here worth understanding.”

“Did you discount the theme?” Barantyne asks, one craggy brow raising. “Did you not learn to recognize blasphemy, to read signs when you see them?”

“I—”

Barantyne cuts Tobias off before he can speak at all. “The High Overseer promised to send me a competent replacement,” he says, looking up in apparent despair. “Your assignment letter brought the highest recommendations. I had such high hopes for you, and now—”

“Isn’t this a punishment?” Tobias bursts out. It sounds juvenile when it comes out of his mouth, but he can’t take the words back, and he’s a third of the man’s age besides. He’s allowed to be juvenile. Barantyne pauses, waiting for Tobias to go on, and Tobias does. “I’ve shown nothing less than excellence and devotion. I am devout and clean and disciplined. I had hoped I would be granted an assignment in—in Dunwall, perhaps, or Karnaca or even Wynnedown—and instead here I am in this town of no importance, listening to you ramble on about catfish!”

To Tobias’ shock, Barantyne chuckles. “You think I’m senile. No, it’s fine, I think I am, too. But I find that age and senility give me a certain perspective. Call it insight, if you will, the ability to connect the dots. I’ve served the Abbey in this part of Gristol since I was your age, or perhaps slightly younger. You’ll find it doesn’t do to stay in one town for your whole career: you’ll have to travel. In rural careers we call it riding the circuit, but I digress.”

“What’s your insight?” Tobias asks sullenly.

Barantyne opens the folder. He spreads the documents within across the desk, a flood of paper showing a picture Tobias can’t quite seem to grasp. “Before I explain, know this,” he says. “The High Overseer and other officers of the Abbey are aware of what I’m about to say.”

“Then why didn’t they tell me your secret?” Tobias can’t keep a certain skepticism out of his voice. He stays where he is, leaning back with arms folded, watching Barantyne closely.

“The debate on its significance has raged for decades now and shows no signs of resolving,” the old Overseer explains. “Spreading it is to spread hypothesis and rumor, not fact. As far as the Abbey is concerned, anyway. What I have to tell you, Wyvil, is a fact. It is a truth which has gone unacknowledged, even among the wise, but those who confront it daily understand its dire significance.”

Tobias could scream from exasperation. He takes a deep breath. “Stop dancing and tell me.”

“Very well,” Barantyne says. In the shadowy late-afternoon room, his eyes glitter. “It is not the coasts with which we need be concerned, when we speak of the influence of the Outsider. No, here, where we sit in the heartland of Gristol, in the most serene and neighborly and pure-hearted of places…it is here that the Outsider walks among us.”

Despite himself, Tobias shivers.

“The Outsider always walks among us,” he says, trying for dismissiveness.

“That is also true,” Barantyne says. “But here, more than anywhere else, heresy runs unchecked.”

For a moment, Tobias pauses. “The rattling skulls,” he says. “The superstitions.”

“You’ve seen a glimpse of it,” Barantyne says solemnly. He rises and circles the desk, crossing the room to a chest of drawers. From it he removes a huge folio, crammed to bursting with…even more documents.

Slightly transfixed by this mad labor, this fanaticism, Tobias stands as Barantyne brings the folio to the desk. He wants to see it better. His skin is beginning to crawl.

“For forty years, I have collected information,” Barantyne says.

He opens the folio and begins to leaf through marked pages. These on top are recent—some broadsheets and pamphlets are dated to the last months. Tobias catches frequent pages of Barantyne’s own writing, transcriptions of confessions and conversations and investigations. Sections cut from almanacs. Pages torn from books. Sketches of boats, of rivers, of men, of fish. Star charts and constellations. Maps of waterways and lakes. Documents Tobias can’t identify. And at the end of the folio, the documents are aged, brown and ink smudged, but clear enough.

And through it all, Tobias sees an eerie theme emerge.

Catfish.

Over and over and over.

Sleek, round-eyed, gape-mouthed, bewhiskered. Sketched in pages from a natural history that catalogues the species of the Empire, freshwater, saltwater, and in between. Descriptions of impossibly-sized fish. Confessions of women who dreamed of drowning, saved by a catfish. Confessions of men who dreamed of coupling with a catfish in the muck of the riverbed. Catfish that speak, that bring luck and health and wealth, that can cause earthquakes or droughts or storms. Heretical magic, faithfully recorded for study, using catfish bones and tails. Ways to read signs from a catfish’s entrails.

“Why?” Tobias asks at last, looking up at Barantyne.

They’ve been standing by the desk so long that the light has begun to fade. In it Barantyne is a shadow, a weird figure, a slender silhouette. He is unsettling.

“Come with me,” Barantyne says, turning toward the door. Tobias follows, picking up his mask as he goes and hooking it on his belt. Barantyne does not bother with his.

They go down the creaking stairs of the house, Tobias following behind. The street onto which they emerge is unpaved. In this part of the Empire, there is no electricity. This is the rural interior, where cows are raised and crops are grown, and these people have no money. About five hundred people live in this town, Eastbend, which sits on the Oxhorn River, miles northwest of Poolwick and not far north of Lake Carawin.

It’s a pleasant place, and on this summer night cicadas are buzzing in the trees and fireflies dance in the tall grass and empty lots between houses. As the cool of the evening washes over Eastbend at last, doors and windows fly open to admit the night breezes. The lights inside are welcoming, but give Tobias very little joy. Barantyne is leading him down a crossroad now, the road to the river.

“No one has watched the rural places for a long time,” Barantyne says, voice as firm and unhurried as his footsteps. “While we looked away, evil has insinuated itself into the lives of the most unsuspecting people. They obey the Strictures, but the charms in their pockets beg the Outsider for luck. In Eastbend alone, there is a catfish buried beneath the cornerstone of every house.”

“No other fish?”

Barantyne gives Tobias a sideways look. “No other fish would do.”

They’re nearly on the edge of town now. From there it’s only a few minutes to the river. As they pass a house with all its windows open, Tobias hears a man singing. He’s strumming some stringed instrument, plucking away a relaxed and subtly cheerful tune. The voice is pleasantly deep and gravelled, but the lyrics of his song leave a strange taste in Tobias’ mouth.

“Well, I wish I was a catfish, swimmin’ in the deep, blue sea…I would have all you good lookin’ women fishin’, fishin’ after me…”

“You see?” Barantyne says, breaking the silence when they’ve left the house behind.

“People eat catfish. Women would fish for one. Especially a plump one.”

Barantyne chuckles. “That’s true,” he says. “The trouble is that people see catfish as _more_ than fish. They eat sturgeon and trout and all the other fish, but catfish is without fail prepared with special reverence. Troubled lovers compare themselves to a long-held myth of a fish and a star. When you hear of the catfish, it is never only a catfish.”

Tobias considers that. Their boots crunch on gravel in the gathering darkness. The light is not entirely gone yet, and the summer twilight truly is beautiful. “And you believe the catfish is the manifestation of the Outsider, is that it?”

For a long while, Barantyne doesn’t speak. They reach the foot of the river bridge and pause for breath. This bridge used to span the whole Oxhorn River, which is a fairly wide river, but in a great flood two years back it was washed out, broken down the middle. It has yet to be repaired.

“I have seen the bodies of catfish the size of oxen,” Barantyne says. He begins to walk up the bridge and Tobias follows. It isn’t far to the edge, and there they both stop. Here they can see the span of the river, and the broken other side of the bridge. The sandbars are still, and the trees on the banks are nothing but rustling shadows in the evening. It’s peaceful: the deep waters of the river are untroubled.

“Those are uncommon but not unheard-of,” Tobias says.

Barantyne stares at the water. “I have seen larger fish,” he says softly. _Fearfully_. “Fish that one might call…leviathans.”

Tobias doesn’t watch the water. He watches Barantyne. The old Overseer doesn’t move. His shoulders are bowed with the weight of a terrible knowledge that Tobias doesn’t fully understand.

At last Barantyne looks at Tobias. “If you watch the river long enough, you will see them too.”

As the sky gradually darkens into true night, the Overseers stand on the broken bridge over the river and wait. Tobias watches until he and Barantyne must turn for home. In all that time, he never sees anything break the surface of the river.

There’s only the wind in the trees, and the croaking of bullfrogs, and the dark still waters.

Nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> The catfish superstitions are Ojibwe (bad luck), Japanese (earthquakes), Ozark/Mississippi fishermen (catfish don’t spawn, man-eating, poison, ox-eating), South American (witch familiar), and Mozambique (floods and droughts) in origin. In the case of Mozambique, it’s not precisely a catfish, but rather “Chipfalamfula,” a great beast which is interpreted as a catfish…or a whale. 
> 
> The discussion of the tablet is inspired by the Narmer Palette, a stone depicting the first king of the united Upper and Lower Egypt. Narmer’s name is phonetically represented by the symbols “n’r” and “mr.” “n’r” transliterates to “catfish.” Intriguing, no?  
> (For this portion I used the Sonoma Historic Artifact Research Database, SHARD, to craft the artifact listing. SHARD was created by archaeologists Erica Gibson and Mary Praetzellis; Bryan Much helped with database design in MS Access. It's available under the Creative Commons License for use, reproduction, and adaptation, so long as appropriate credit is given.)
> 
> The tale of the man who became a catfish originated with a tale from the Menominee people. In the original, the man (who was already transformed from an animal into a man) violated a ban on eating porcupine. His companions, who are rather dickish, secretly fed it to him and he became a catfish and swam away. Afterwards, he did continue to bring game and general prosperity to the area.
> 
> The crucifix catfish is a fairly well-known thing. A fisherman from Destin, Florida retells the tale: “It’s good luck if you have one of these…It comes from the Hardhead catfish and shows an arrangement of bones that resemble a crucifixion. When shaken, a sound like dice being thrown is often heard and many say it’s the sound of the Roman soldiers gambling for Christ’s garments.”
> 
> European cat-fish are a little different from the rest. Rather than being the catfish as we know them, these are heraldic beasts which are indeed half cat and half fish. The concept supposedly comes from the ancient belief that in the heavens and seas there are counterparts to those on land. I did my best to check the heraldry and get it right!
> 
> Returning one more time to Ancient Egypt, catfish-headed men and actual catfish assisted the god Aker in guiding the solar disc through the Underworld at night. They’re also associated with the cat-headed goddess Bast.
> 
> In Thailand, it’s said that eating Mekong catfish results in a long and prosperous life. Because of their sacred nature, rituals have been and continue to be offered before and after catching them. Some of the largest catfish ever caught have come out of the Mekong river. The species holds the Guinness World Record for the world’s largest freshwater fish, with the largest on record being 8 ft 10 inches (2.7 m). Supposedly, they can grow as long as 10 ft (3.1 m); this is unconfirmed. 
> 
> Smoked catfish recipe adapted from smoker-cooking.com. I wish my family liked catfish…
> 
> Lyrics of the song are to “Catfish Blues,” a classic. You can find recordings of all kinds, from the original recordings of Robert Petway in 1941 all the way to the recording of Jimi Hendrix in 1967.


End file.
